Friday, May 12, 2006

My new TV uncle

Through sheer force of will, Terry Dietz has plowed his way through most of this season of Survivor. In shades of Tom Westman, New York fireman and Season 11 winner, Dietz has used old-guy endurance and old-guy intelligence to outwit the nitwits he's sharing the Panamanian island with. Although last night he was bested in immunity, his first such loss in that challenge, he's faced down any and all comers since the tribal merge and strode like a colossus among lesser men.

Even though my original TV dad is still Tom Westman, I'd graciously allow TV uncle Dietz to throw the ball around with me, teach me how to ride a bicycle, change the oil in his TV car (which, appropriately enough, would be some big V8 with magged out tires and shiny rims, because uncles always have cooler autos than your own parents). Soon enough, my TV dad Westman would get angry at TV uncle Dietz over how he's "screwing his life" up, and if he'd "only give up the constant boozing -- for chrissakes, you stink like the goddamn sauce right now! And what is it -- 10 in the godddamn morning?" And my TV uncle would be saying, "Ah, go fuck yourself, Mister Fucking High Horse! Your going to lecture me on drinking just because you're fucking jealous that I didn't knock up that waitress and marry her on a lark! Don't get angry at me now you can't have fun anymore. I fucking told you to get rid of it, but NOOOO! You didn't listen." To which my TV dad would say, "You don't talk about my wife that way, asshole. Shut your fucking mouth before I kick all your fucking teeth in." TV uncle would retort, "Go the fuck ahead, Big Man. Just fucking try it." Within minutes, TV mom would be crying her eyes out, trying to stop TV dad from hitting TV uncle in the head with his balled-up fist. Soon enough, TV police officer would be called to the scene to fill out an incident report, wherein TV mom would suggest that TV uncle also has a "cocaine problem, too. He's up to three grams a day." All the while, TV me would be in my room, hiding behind my TV bedroom door, quietly sobbing in fear and sadness into the soft, wooly head of my TV teddy bear, the only real, safe friend I have.